The Apprentice
by Penrose Quinn
Summary: "Michael, it is not as simple as you speak of. By the age of eighteen, I must never love a man because if I do, my heart will wither and my whole body will turn into stone. You must understand that being an apprentice under Howl is my key in breaking this curse." She said. "B-but, Clarence, you're a girl! Falsifying your identity to an infamous wizard doesn't count!" (HowlxOC)
1. Hoodwink

THE APPRENTICE

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:: **1: **Hoodwink ::

_—The Chronicles of a Wretched Curse, a Silver-tongued Fledgling, and a Perplexing Quest—_

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Porthaven was plagued with an unpromising tempest – a sailor's dismay. Its mighty gale squalled upon the hapless village with a rasping fist, making every door and window shudder in fear from its wrath. Swarthy clouds riddled upon the forlorn sky with a relentless drizzle flooding the cobblestone streets. Though upon the dead of the night, bricked chimneys huffed with ashen puffs and radiating upon the lit windows are the friendly silhouettes of a mother tucking her children to their pleasant slumber and gracing them with a soft kiss upon their pale foreheads.

Oh, the delight of childhood! Bittersweet as those memories were, the young chap had to brush off those bright windows which sparkle with smiles and chocolate-sweet kisses. Then again, as for the current condition of our little hero…

One brawny hand grappled a fistful tug onto a lad's collar in the most suffocating fashion while the said boy's fists fruitlessly sent feeble hits onto the man's rotund biceps, hoping, at least, his blows could irk the best out of him. Oh dear, and it all happened so hastily. "Bloody brat!" cursed the vulgar man as he shoved his petite guest onto the frigid road. "I told ya to get lost!"

Soaked and sprawled onto the damp floor, his hand rubbed his scuffed chin. "You didn't answer my question, you geezer!" he roared with a sneer.

The resident blacksmith's thick arms crossed in authority. His bushy brows remained stitched and his prissy glout was unwavering. "I told ya! I don't let me self near one of them bloody magic-users!" pure detest sizzled onto his heated curses. Does this _brat _ever learn how to yield that he bores _abhor_ for those damned wizards? "Them no good rascals bring nothin' but bad luck." He whispered in a loathing manner with a chafed spit before turning his heels and slamming the door.

He wobbled onto his feet, constraining himself from the brink of tripping. His shaky hand coiled onto the railings while the other hand came to fish his drenched hat and ragged luggage from a puddle. Then the door flashed open once more. "Get out, mutt!" the man barked as he threw the shaggy sheepdog outside the cold along with its foolish master. And another door slam.

He cried in worry, "Lowell, are you all right?" the hound merely whined, but stood, heartening that it was all right from any casualties. A small smile of relief painted his features as he graced his friend a gentle pat to the head, the one Lowell always favored. Soon, his pleasant smile broke into a scowl, and glared back at the wooden aperture. "I hope you rot under the lowest pits of hell, you…you damn bastard!"

The dog also growled along with its canine teeth glittering in the rain. The boy sniffed and dumped his cap onto his burgundy mane. "C'mon, Lowell." He called as he slung his bag on his shoulder though every bit of his tone had pure, mollified spleen behind every octave. His companion, in return, obeyed silently with its large, chocolate eyes peeping from its white and slightly tinted gray fur, his sign of concern after his master's foul temper.

A sigh draped his lips. "Lowell, I'm fine. Don't look at me like that." But, its eyes widened even more, popping like freshly roasted chestnuts. Oh, Good Lord. Damn these pleading tactics. He gave another sigh and tugged his lips into a grin. "How about I buy us a snack?" it yapped joyfully, the question piquing its interest.

The peculiar pair strolled along the streets in search for the nearest bakeshop despite undergoing the perils without an umbrella. Though, it was no hassle for those two as long as they stay by each other's side. That's what matters. Ah, there goes the saying after all, _a dog is a boy's best companion_. Being blessed with fortune's faint glimmer, his green orbs caught the sight of a small, delicate bakery.

Nearing the said shop, the red-haired adolescent felt fortunate for there was at least some covering above the shop, sheltering them from the rain shower. Exhibited before their famished eyes were a row of tempting and sugar-coated delicacies exposed behind a protective glass display, and there was no doubt that the scent of freshly baked bread sweetly lingered the area. Their stomachs rumbled. An aged man – surely, the shop owner – gave them an anticipating stare. "Two biscuits, please." He muttered, placing two coins on the counter.

Scraggy fingers clawed onto the coins and propped their light treat— well, more like their supper. "Thank you." His mouth twitched in mirth as he raked the paper bag to his lap and sat at the stool. His hand tossed the small loaf to the dog right beside him while he gobbled onto his own, savoring the faint warmth it held. "Don't worry, Lowell. Someday, we'll have scones glazed with honey and a mountain of cream cakes." Was his encouragement over the sulking hound, who had devoured his meal without a crumb at sight.

"Aren't you going to get sick in the cold…C..C-Cla…what was it again?" the elder tapped his whiskery chin, trying his best to attain the familiar chap's name. "Ah, Claus—"

"—_Clarence_, Mister Brecket." The juvenile corrected as he chomped onto his biscuit. Filibert Brecket was one of Porthaven's distinguished bakers despite maintaining such a simple bakery for the following years. He had passed his prime quite splendidly through the trails of white strands poking onto his once dark tresses and few from the bristly hairs under his chin. Though, he had lived to tell the tale of the events that circled this seedy town with enough detailed memory to put the daily newsprints to shame. Ironic as it sounds, he was quite forgetful most of the time.

This did not cease him to ask, "Well, boy, when do you plan on going back home?" for a quite a while now, he had always seen this boy wander to these eerie streets for a few weeks, both penniless and without a home. The lad would go to his shop every day to buy some measly bread that could just be enough for himself and his brisk friend. It sparked even the faintest of flames of his curiosity and the slimmest chance of his solicitude.

"Don't have one." Clarence grumbled, ravenously tearing the small loaf through his teeth. _Nothing to return to now, anyways. _The slightest thought of returning back to _that place_ did not exactly excite or relieve him one bit like any lost tod. Actually, he never did. He did have his own purposes why he came to this shabby locality than the sublime city where he once belonged.

Clarence Liddle held onto a fiery resolution that altered his perspectives and personal aims as an ignorant child and that was to become a wizard of Ingary. Of course, the idea was enough to be weened as a ludicrous statement, especially to his parents that dared laugh at his conceptions. On the contrary, to his conviction, this was his key of attaining a way of breaking his curse that is if he had some knowledge of breaching it. He was willing to learn— to devote his time and self under a great wizard of exceptional abilities.

And for a year, he had been scavenging for one, but alas, there was none. It was decreed from that damned curse that at the age of eighteen, his heart will wither and his body will turn into stone if he fell in love with a man. Oops. That didn't sound right. Shedding some light to the picture, Clarence was more than what meets the eye. He was no lad, but rather, a maiden in disguise. In truth, her real name is Clara Liddle, a young woman who strove to become a wizard under a wretched curse.

Concealing her identity was merely a precaution for she was already nineteen years of age, and this came to be a customary practice granted by her parents due to this horrid fate she lived under her childhood. She will break that curse, that was what she swore before. She will prove _them_ all wrong. She will not continue to live under a secrete world in vain and scrutinize how she perished from a ghastly spell. With a tenacious spirit and confidence, she would _change _her destiny.

Mister Brecket remained vigilant at the adolescent. "I heard from Albert that you got into a quarrel with our local blacksmith," his dark eyes caught a glimpse of her nails heartily puncturing the half-eaten biscuit. "What happened exactly?"

Clara gave a miffed huff. "He wouldn't answer my damn question." She took another savage bite. Oh, how she riled that blasted man, especially the cruelty he showed to her dear Lowell! How unforgivable! It was a doleful evening, and she heard from some tenants that there was an old blacksmith in Porthaven who dwelled in the town even before Wizard Jenkins resided. Though, they didn't care to share a tip that he scourges the living existence of mages. An obvious product of this was the misfortune she confronted.

And he was one to slander and shame a gentleman's etiquette! She nimbly questioned the man for any lodging wizards inhabiting the coastal town, but as response, he presented an unattractive frown – one that dutifully made her skin crawl – and horded all his foul resentments to those mystical beings of magic. When she defended and announced her motive of taking apprenticeship, he snagged her by the collar and flung her away as if a pest that must be disposed of. The nerve of that vexing geezer!

Her discontent mouth mumbled a string of curses. Most of them are quite unsettling. "I am not sure if you will appreciate this piece of information, but Claude—"

"—Clarence." She chided wearily with a gruff tone. Though she grew accustomed of being called by her alias instead of her real name, there were times that it did pester her that not many folks bothered to get her other name right. How irksome.

Clearing his throat, the elder pushed on, "A year ago, Wizard Jenkins disappeared without a trace, and Porthaven had to encounter its vices and public crisis with no aid of magic. Those earlier days gave bitter memories to all who resided, but soon enough, the town had to adapt to this sort of environment. One lacking a talented warlock—"

Her fine brow arched, dubious. "Are you telling me to give up?"

"Not really. Let me finish, boy," disheartened, he considered this young fellow as an impolite one. Especially, in conversations. "I'm not really a credulous-type of man, but from the rumors that's been buzzing, I heard that Wizard Jenkins' old apartment had lights flickering behind its window every night. It could be possible that Wizard Jenkins might have returned or the mischievous spirits that he "summoned" before he left came to haunt his own abode. Well, that's all I can tell you, kid."

"I see," the lass stood with brimming confidence as she munched the remnants of her cheap snack. Flinging her bag to her shoulder once again, she gazed at the sheepdog, signing their departure. Wagging its tail in anticipation, it understood and stood beside her.

"Where're you going?" he questioned. This brash sapling was not only discourteous but _mad_ as well! That piece of information he shared was more of a warning than an encouragement. Despite the misunderstanding, this one had unquestionable tenacity, willing to travel into an old – and probably, dangerous – edifice in the darkest of nights and plunge into a storm albeit being drenched. And for what? To confirm the truth from a tall tale. Oh woe, the nonsensical wits of striplings!

"To Wizard Jenkins' apartment," her green orbs shimmered like brilliant emeralds. There are some things which are worth a shot. "I want to know for myself."

A sigh escaped out of his lips. "I wish you the best of luck then, chap!" he gratified a cordial adieu while she left through the violent rain with her enthusiastic friend.

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Clara grew hesitant at the moment – an unorthodox demeanor of hers. The zeal that flared in her irises crashed into an opaque glance as she inspected the blanched brick walls that would be reckoned enough as a mire with the soot and bog sullying its languished glory. It further wrinkled her nose in disgust that stalks of creepers and weeds encrusted the crumbling concrete as if it was a withering structure— nope, actually, it was _the _withering structure. The notion made her feel skeptical.

What's more vacillating was that there were no windows for her to peer what monstrosity or enigmatic beings were sealed before her mortal eyes. Ironically, the only window she caught was a small murky window temptingly flaunted above the door. Miraculously, the faintest gleam lit. To her dismay, it was not enough for her reach for peeping. She was left to either imagine the great wonders and horrors of this building or simply knock to conclude the fabricated stories.

Lowell tipped his nose to his owner's frail hand, emboldening her to perform the action. In return, she patted his nose lightly. Drawing her breath, her knuckles softly pounded the wooden aperture in hopes that at least someone would answer it. The maiden waited for a few minutes yet it appeared no one bothered to open the door anytime soon. She knocked once more, but nary a sound was out of place. On the dawn of waiving, she held onto her last resort.

Her lithe fingers coiled onto the knob. About to twist it, she was interrupted when the entrance creaked open on its own. Her face was the portrait of muddle. "You are…Wizard Jenkins?" she trailed off, endeavoring her best husky voice. At least, near to a boy who has yet to succeed his puberty. She could never apprehend that the great sorcerer would be a _boy_.

He was a glistening product at his adolescence. A youth of sixteen, and a handsomely tall chap with tousled brunette hair and equally dark eyes. His face sent no black impressions. Despite that, he gave a congenial sort of appeal. Trustworthy and candid. And sprinkling more of her praises, he was respectably dressed in the kind of clothing that made him appear as if he hailed as a son of a rich merchant. "No, I am not," she might have mistaken him too much as the great conjurer. Maybe, new tenants lodged this apartment. "What is your purpose here?"

Clearing her throat, she gave a satisfying answer, "I came to meet Wizard Jenkins in the living flesh." Though, this further worsened his skepticisms.

"Well, he is absent at the moment." This was quite big news indeed! It had been a year since everyone had heard of _the_ Wizard Jenkins. He was certain that he had already spread rumors that this praised wizard disappeared, just as told. Now, came before him was this fellow in search of his mentor. A customer or a foe in disguise? Unfortunately, he could not determine. Well, still, there was no reason to lie now since he blurted it on his own, and maybe, this one was a feasible client. They were _shortening_ in capitals.

Peculiar enough, this "young lad" somewhat possessed a petite form. Michael did pin the fact that those smoldering emerald orbs held no ounce of fear yet an ample amount of intensity. It was clear enough that this one had an indomitable spirit or either a reckless character to start petty quarrels. Another vivid trait was that crown of cordovan locks which were long enough to be tied behind "his" head, but short enough to be less of a hindrance.

"When can I meet him?" the redhead asked eagerly.

A sigh met his lips. "I cannot guarantee he can return before dawn." Old habits never die from a stubborn wizard, perhaps. Especially, after _the_ _incident_.

She prodded, "I do not mind waiting all night." On the other hand, she hoped he allowed her to sojourn a night. There was no other place she could dwell in but the harsh outdoors in a furious weather, and she only had a trifle amount of money left. Porthaven always gave scarce wages to any street urchin who toiled for servile undertakings from lifting ponderous crates to clearing manure from coops.

"Oh, but—"

"It is a necessity that I meet him," she said obstinately. "I can guarantee you that I will depart if he does not return till dawn."

His brow cocked in suspicion. "You are not a pickpocket, are you?"

"Clearly, not." Her arms crossed defiantly.

The brunette mused sedately of the matter, predicting the possible outcomes and probing the good intent behind her fierce gaze. It was quite a hassle actually. And another one of these hurdles were his refined manners towards possible customers. It appeared that this one did _want_ to wait for the said warlock but _literally_ in the comfort of his home. _But what would Howl think if I let him in? _His conscience was a pain. "All right then." He said, gesturing her inside with a horrid churn in his stomach that this will _indeed_ stir trouble.

This was how Sophie coaxed him before. Drat.

As she set foot inside, the sheepdog tailed behind her which caught him in slight surprise. It shook vigorously, spraying droplets like rapid bullets, while its master had no intention of shedding her dank coat or bothering to take off her cap, creating a small puddle underneath her. "If you require aid in a spell of some sort, maybe I could be of use instead of him," he stated simply as he ascended from the stairs, lenient as usual. "He does not take in customers anymore."

Clara followed behind him, climbing through the stairs as well. "Oh, but my reasons are far from it." She unconsciously gnawed her inner cheek as her once collected eyes popped open from flurry, immense curiosity, and – the most evident emotion – _repulsion_. Ah, how should she explain this…she would have never expected that the famous wizard preferred to live in a pigsty. Yes, a _pigsty_— a living, non-breathing hodgepodge.

Though, it _was _certainly a lair of a sorcerer. There was this mysterious ambiance she felt within the cold stone walls with raw power reeking within the parlor— a cowing and suffocating might that made her feel like an insect. It was vehement. Mystical. Arcane to many. And above all, _magical_. Upon the dowdy walls were a curtain of cobwebs and dust and what fairly competed with it was the clusters and bundles of herbs and strange roots, dangling above.

Her curious gaze wandered off to the small workshop right next to said lounge with marvelous towers of leathery books – though shelled with grime and leaden of its once lustrous charms – with drab shelves slumped with scrolls with alien inscriptions and pastiche, more books of spells, and oddly, roots again, that appeared to be growing underneath. She wouldn't be surprised if moles inhabited there. Gross. There were also vials with strangely colored liquids, some powders, and flasks from curvaceous necks to ones with triangular bodies.

Michael asked, her cryptic motives goading his interest, "Then, what do you seek here?"

Seperating her from her brilliant view of wizardly novelties, she took a moment to speculate his benign yet doubtful features. "I wish to be his apprentice." Was her solemn reply.

"What for?"

"For the thrill of learning," Clara lied swiftly. Even if she did spill her reasons, it would all come to naught in the end – no wizard broke her spell – and it did not fancy her one bit telling him that she was female and must avoid the risks of "falling in love". It sounded like poppycock to any man, even to someone of magic. For a while, she felt fortunate that he did not seem to notice that she _was _a girl. It was a useful trait that she had a rather plain appearance. "It was a juvenile dream of mine to be a great mage."

"I see…" a thumb cupped his chin. "I am an apprentice of his, but I am not sure if he is in a forgiving state though."

"I'll still persist in engaging a conversation with him." She pried indefatigably. This was her chance of breaking an impossible spell on her own.

"Hmm," his dark irises scanned her sternly. An awfully obdurate one, he thought. "Ah, my manners, I am Michael Fisher." The corners of his lips quirked into an amiable smile as he offered his hand before her.

"Clarence." The lass muttered, latching his hand. "Clarence Liddle."

He then scratched his ruffled locks. "I will just continue what I was finishing. Sit wherever you wish." The incognito nodded, fetching her dog onto her sodden arms. On the other hand, while she was in a daze, his head turned to the hearth with his fingers cupped deliberately for whispering. "Calcifer, he doesn't look that trustworthy. Do you think he's a rival wizard in disguise?" the flames flickered in response.

His tufted green brow knitted. "Then, why did you let him in?" the fire demon retorted nastily.

The juvenile eagerly wanted to reply that he was slyly wheedled. "He said he wanted to be Howl's— well, Wizard Jenkins' apprentice." He responded, peaking at the stranger who chose to sit in a chair and to fondle her companion on her lap. "He insisted to wait and was a bit headstrong about it."

"Don't worry, I wouldn't have let the boy in if he wasn't harmless," he crackled with reassurance and flaring confidence. He was, after all, from his exalted titular, _the _great demon, Calcifer. That name wasn't forged for frightening children. His torch-like eyes glared heatedly. Just flesh and blood. Upon the glints of his purple pupils, there was nothing special of this odd teen— one which was dearth of magic. But, there was something more— a dreadful _curse_. A potent one from an even preeminent being. "But make sure to keep an eye on him."

"Right." Answered the apprentice before returning back to his business.

Clara felt it. Something scorching her back with burnt holes. Suspicious eyes. Though, it wasn't just Michael's glance. There was something else that possessed those truculent and kindling eyes but she could not scour for its owner. Her attention was caught by the madly grinning skull right on top of a book she seemingly took interest on, expectant that it would converse her out of her boredom and uneasiness.

Then there her ears heard mumblings. It was the brunette's baritone…and a huskier and crackling-like voice. Unfortunately, she could not eavesdrop their colloquy for she was a distance away from them— enough to only hear rattles and not words. Slightly twisting her head to her side, her green irises captured him speaking with a… _who_ was he speaking to in that hearth? The flickering fire? Preposterous! It could not be! She snapped her head quickly back at the skull the second she met his gaze.

She would have sworn she heard some murmuring from the hearth. Her brows furrowed irritably. Was it truly the flame? But the very conception itself was such a weird case. A dose of absurdity! But there was this aged rumor saying—

In a wizard's lair, always expect the unexpected.

_Expect a long night, Clara._

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**A/N: **My gosh! I finished the first chapter! Oh, and hello, dear reviewer. I thank you sincerely for reading this ridiculous story of mine, but in your kindness, please also review and criticize this story. I hope I succeeded in catching your full interest and attention. Oh, I hope the characterization is fine – I tend to become overreacting to some extent if I cannot confirm if I got it right! By the way, this story just randomly popped in my mind and I couldn't help myself but write it down despite juggling some unfinished stories and this is one of the few projects I wanted to succeed.

Ah, for any confusions:

1\. The storyline is based from the book itself because I absolutely loved reading it! But I loved the movie as well.

2\. The plot is set after the events that took after the Howl's Moving Castle – more of an aftermath.

3\. Sophie Hatter exists. Though, in this plot, she decides not to live in the castle (the reason will be mentioned in future chapters). (Just a reminder, I do not hate her and I have no intention of bashing a character. This is just how my plot winds.)

4\. Also, as the aftermath, this one forecasted that Sophie was not able to lift Howl and Calcifer's curse despite her "being able to talk to life into things". (Once more, I am not bashing a character.)

5\. I could not confirm if Michael is a brunette or not because nothing much is explained about his appearance.

6\. If you have more questions, confusions, or even curiosities, I would gladly answer it.

Lastly, if it was any good, should I continue it?

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**Disclaimer:**I do not own Howl's Moving Castle. This masterpiece belongs to its wonderful writer, Dianna Wynne Jones.


	2. Tenacity

THE APPRENTICE

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:: **2: **Tenacity ::

—_The Chronicles of an Unforeseen Revelation, a Beautiful Wizard, and Rejection—_

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_Tick tock_

Tedious seconds plopped into countless minutes. Hours could have lapsed. Who knows? It wouldn't really be a surprise if it had already been two in the morning. Though, no matter how time excelled in its role in such excellency, the cloudburst was still awhirl, ravaging the seedy coast town into naught but piles of rubble and grimacing detriment.

Her emerald beauties glistened with curiosity and doldrums as they wandered through the shut windows, which were splendidly daubed with grime. Her ears listened gingerly at the wild thrashing of the rain and the long, doleful howls of the mighty gale. The storm wasn't going to end soon. Mulling, the esteemed mage came across her mind, and then she pondered if the weather would be a nag to his trip back to his lair.

A cuddled-up, dank Lowell watched his master make odd faces, making his eyes broaden with curiosity. She hummed thoughtfully. Then again, she heard of rumors and tales of the reputable seven-league boots that could take the one who wears it in such great distances in a short span of time or the famed teleportation spells castors make. Or maybe, since he _was_ a great wizard, he could even silence this weather with a simple snap of his fingers. All the more reason she felt ecstatic meeting this wondrous and enigmatic being.

His chestnut beauties stared upon her sodden form as if he had seen a ridiculous spectacle. Well, Howl's blunders _were _far more worst than _that_. "Uh...aren't you going to take off that coat?" he pointed out, latching the redhead's courtesy. "You're dripping wet."

Her dark lashes batted in realization as she glanced at the small pellets of water dribble below her. "Ah...um, right." Her hands lightly pushed the dog off her, which flinched from its sudden fall. Then she doffed her coat and placed it slovenly in her lap, slightly shivering from the cold.

"I'll be off to get some ingredients," said the brunette with an urgent look in his eyes. Frankly speaking, he seemed to be pretty cooped up in his station brewing some sort of kooky concoction. A potion, perhaps? "While I'm gone, don't do anything funny."

Her lips twisted into a frown. He still didn't trust her. Well, who would after all? Barging in a wizard's abode in the dead of the night did not exactly strike as less shady. Not at _all_. "Sure," Clara uttered in a tart tone. Her limbs were tucked in a fussy manner. "I wouldn't bother anyways." Came her nonchalant reply, adapting her hick, cockney speech.

Michael gave a nod before ascending through the rickety flight of stairs. On the other hand, she curiously peeped as he scooted away, but soon diverted her attention to the fireside for she grew nippier. She neared herself to the small fire in high hopes that it would provide her warmth. Spotting some sooty logs near the hearth, she tossed two of it at the rosy flames, further making it devour the wood into a scarlet crisp. _That's a bit better_. She sneezed, her fingers rubbing her ruddy nose. _I can't allow myself getting a cold now._

"You're one strange boy."

Her emerald orbs popped open.

"What!"

Her head rapidly craned to her left and then to her right, but nary a being came across her presence. This act greatly aggravated Calcifer. Let alone, _insulted_ him. He was right _in front_ of her. A small puff of smoke unfurled from his brooding mouth as he huffed. Humans were such a rude ilk.

Slightly irked, he barked, "Over here!" his flickering arms waved fervently.

Clara blinked owlishly. Her chapped lips quelled in silence. Oh dear. Too overwhelmed by her bemusement, the poor girl was ensnared into a state of stupor. It was great luck that her downy friend tugged her sleeve, growing concerned for his master's hollow gawking, in order for her to decline her one way express trip to lala land.

She shook her head for a moment and rubbed her eyes. With a finger pointed at the hearth, she stuttered, "The...the fire just_—_"

The fire demon rolled his gleed-like orbs in nonchalance. Her splendidly muddled face - no different from the hundreds of perplexed faces he received before her time - did not exactly make him quiver in excitement, but more or less it bore him. Sometimes, it simply heightened his peeve. "Yes, yes, the fire from the hearth just spoke. I see your point." A grumble rumbled from his smoking mouth. "I'm sure this not a dream either." He shot her a smoldering glower to prove his point, which earned her a fidget.

Though, he would come to regret disparaging this strange 'chap'.

"I knew it!" she squealed in delight, raising her voice into a falsetto— the squeaky voice of an ecstatic girl could be accepted. This caused him to jolt in surprise. He could have sprung from the lumps of charred logs once the burgundy-haired girl poked her freckled nose near the hearth with sparkling eyes that scrutinized him from his unsteady flicks to his popping sparks, much to Calcifer's discomfort. "I knew there's somethin' magical about this place! Why could it not? It's a bloody wizards lair! Fiddlesticks, I knew the Fisher lad was talkin' to somethin'! Thought he had a some loose screw in his head— I mean, I thought _I _was going bonkers! Ha! But—"

Bonkers. This odd teen. Yes, she was an absolute _screwball_. Her mouth kept running— kept jabbering to the point he could no longer distinguish her words from decent colloquy to slurs. Why was she _so _eccentric about? Why was she _not_ horrified of his presence?

"— So what in the world are you? Were you born here or something?" she pressed herself closer, prodding her index finger to the flaring being.

Galled till he glared into a candent blaze, he barked in protest, whipping his scathing lashes, "Stop that!"

Heedless, her finger was lightly scorched, causing her to snag it back instinctively. "Ow," she mumbled softly, sucking her burnt fingertip. "Sorry 'bout that. Got too excited." Her lips broke into a sheepish grin, her hand rustling her drenched locks.

"Hmph, I can see that." Grumbled the fire demon.

The burgundy-haired lass beamed brightly, coggling in anticipation. "So, were you made by Wizard Jenkins?"

A cackle. An awfully cocky laugh it was.

He puffed his heap of crackling, vermillion flames with a wide, impish, undoubtingly smug smirk. Glaring, his purple pupils sparked in arrogance. "Ha! On the contrary, I _made _him what he is now." He corrected with a snide chuckle.

She rubbernecked closer. "Hm? What are you anyway?" a pry hopped off her lips, both addled and curious.

"I am a fire demon— Calcifer, the feared fire demon of Ingary!"

"A fire demon you say," an engaged glint swirled in her green pools. Interesting little fellow, isn't he? "Why did you talk to me then?"

Calcifer took a closer look at the cordovan-haired maiden with scrunched brows. "I can sense you have one nasty curse on you_—_ a _strong _one," spoke the enigmatic being, wearing a weary and frustrated look. A hint of annoyance coated his stare. "The thought of it is even head-draining." A fussy fret bounced off his mouth.

"You know 'bout curses?" hope flared in her eyes. But, she knew clearly to herself that she would not heedlessly trust a stranger she has just met— even fire demons from hearths were no exception. A golden token of advice her mother once told her which was the only one that was useful. And a piece of knowledge she learned once she accustomed herself in the ghettos. "Do you know how to break them?"

He was about to open his mouth when a small click intervened.

Her emerald eyes flicked to the direction of the screeching creaks of an opening door. Soft treading thumped the greasy, wooden floor, each step closer evening the sonority of every beat her heart throbbed. A dark figure emerged from the shadows of the night. Her lashes could not bat for a second. It was as if this mysterious being held an entrapping attraction, twining his victims at the bottom of his palms.

Everything she thought a sorcerer would be.

A snort puffed out of his mouth, his lank, blue face crimpling in revolt. "You reek of alcohol," was the snarky utterance of Calcifer. "Howl."

Wait...what?

That snapped her from her daze.

Out of alarm, she stood instinctively.

"_H-Howl!_"

A fine, slender brow arched. "Who are you?" never less eloquent, he queried inquiringly. "And how on earth did you get yourself in here?"

Clara trembled in caution and fright. "Y-you are..._the_ Wizard Howl." How could she not know this man— this _fiend_. Howl, the wizard who ate the hearts of countless beautiful women. Every man, woman, child, and elder quaked to their toes from such a despicable name. In between her days of aimlessly swanning and searching for a master, she would often hear from local tattletales, batty buttinskies, and painted snoops horrid rumors about this man, whether it was public markets, pubs, or even the filthiest corners in Ingary.

"Yes," was his terse reply yet it caught him in bemusement when a tapered, dented flick blade was threateningly presented before him. "Pleasant meeting you." He welcomed in a cool tone, a small bit of sarcasm bubbling in his greeting.

Her sharp eyes glowered into feral slits. "I heard you ate the hearts of innocent girls in your wake!" she accused shakily, her dull weapon still pointing at the said bloodthirsty mage. She would never have someone like him devour her heart without a fight at hand.

Unruffled, Howl remained to act phlegmatic as he sighed in discontent. "Well, I assure you that I do not fancy devouring a heart of a mere boy." His sheen irises scrutinized the strange adolescent, her sloppy stance slightly reminding him of an aggressive, provoked bear in a defensive disposition. Well, that's no surprise. This 'chap' must have heard those rumors about him. Good.

For a moment, she realized that the idea that she was posing as a boy slipped out of her mind. Her jaws tightened, braying. "That does not simply mean you are not a danger to all." On cue, Lowell growled at his presence.

A wise response. At least, this stripling was not so foolish to spout words, unlike her actions. "What purpose did you come here, boy?" with a nimble flick of his supple fingers, her dank coat coiled itself around her small frame, making her release the knife and trapping her from the chair she sat earlier ago. She squirmed from the iron grasp of her garb while glowering at him in choler. He in turn glared down at her with an unimpressed look.

Defiant emeralds clashing against lofty, glassy, green gems.

A tempest was unleashed.

"H-Howl!"

Swiftly craning his neck, the wizard spotted a head of brunette locks, which would be his apprentice. "Michael, what is the meaning of this?"

He twiddled his thumbs timidly. "Uh, um...h-he wanted to engage conversation with you." Said the Fisher chap who grew awfully qualm and wonky.

"Really now," said Howl in a light tone, rimmed with tart twist of skepticism. "How can we converse with that discourteous character of yours?" he chided placidly, earning him her piercing daggers. The sheep dog then began to bark at him, but the said wizard payed no heed at it.

"I wanted to meet the great Wizard Jenkins," the aggravated lass retorted hotly. "_Not _the infamous rogue!"

"Well, that's a good one!" remarked a chipper Calcifer, guffawing till flares of orange and yellow burst out of his purple mouth.

He cleared his throat solemnly. "I believe you are already speaking to him."

Her dark lashes fluttered. "You're not serious..." she said in disbelief, dumbfounded. "You're...Wizard Jenkins?"

"Indeed."

She begun to laugh mockingly as if she was mad. "Ha! This must be some sort of farce," a spurned smirk twisted her lips, bile still riddling in her features. "Wizard Jenkins is a different person according to the people here. Do not fool me with your lying tongue, you _scapegrace_!" she spat in defiance, not minding how she could have aggravated a possibly _murderous_ sorcerer.

Laughter roared from the hearth. "This kid is cracking me up! What a dolt!"

"Hush, Calcifer." Chided Howl in an awfully calm - somewhat irked - tone. "This is no lie. I am both Wizard Howl and Wizard Jenkins."

Michael cleared his parched throat to draw attention. "Uh...Howl, it would you be best if you released him," said his apprentice with a nervous yet concerned glance. "He's strained enough."

"Ah, of course," with a flick of his hand, the damp coat limply fell from the incognito's limbs. Then, her little friend leaned to her legs, comforting her with its worried wails.

After whispering a few hushed words at her companion, she softly shooed him from them as her eyes landed on him.

Her fiery tongue was oddly tame, not uttering her prickling words like their first encounter. He did not like the thought of getting angry— let alone, being grounded in these types of complicated plights. His marble-like orbs glanced at her for a moment. She was glowering at him, an apparent sign that she utterly _disliked _him. Ah, the feeling is mutual.

His brow rose. "Still stubborn, boy?"

"My name is not 'boy'."

"Then what is it?"

"Clarence."

"Well then," was his nonchalant response. "What do you wish to converse about?" Howl sat cozily and lazily on his old, drab armchair with his legs crossed and his arms dangled to the armrests while his cheek was perched against his pale, smooth palm. From this view and of course, without the strain of her rasping coat, she could scrutinize him more vividly. Odd. Very odd, indeed. A glout stretched her mouth.

Why in the blasted world was the infamous wizard, the feared Howl who ate the hearts of a beautiful women in his wake, _handsome_?

Damn it.

He was obliviously _young_. Most probably, a juvenile in his mid-twenties or at least a bit older. He had such a fair complexion with locks of starlight hair that tumbled on his shoulders like silken ribbons, and a beautiful face as if it was a masterpiece, chiseled by the best sculptors in the world. Worst of all, there was this alluring charm to him she could not comprehend. It wasn't his gray and scarlet suit nor the elegance in his gestures. Something else. Something uncanny. Something...mysteriously enchanting.

Clara felt the blood rush to her cheeks. Curse her female hormonal impulses. She shook her head a bit. No, no...do not be hoodwinked by his pulchritude. This man is still the very same menacing conjurer from the rumors. Well, it was still least of her expectations to find a beautiful man than a hideous rascallion, mind you. Though, it could be possible that he uses his beauty to lure women in his lair to devour their hearts. _Be wary._

Clara stood from her seat, silent and somewhat hesitant. Though, the hesitation soon dispersed once resolution clouded her emerald irises. Her hands were balled into fists, knuckles whitening. She needed a mentor more than anything. A great wizard that might teach her how to reverse her curse. If he was her only option right now, then so be it. After all, beggars can't be choosers. "I want to become your apprentice." She declared, solemn and determined.

His eyes widened in surprise, but slowly softened. Such a contrary request coming from someone who has pointed a flick blade in front of him _and_ called him a scapegrace. "What reason for?" he pressed curiously.

"To become a great mage," she reasoned coolly. "Just like what the people remark about you."

The wizard chortled. "The infamous rogue, as I recall."

"I meant Wizard Jenkins," retorted the rankled woman. "Whom I thought was an _old_, beneficial sorcerer who was filled knowledge beyond any mage could have." Revenge was better off served cold, and what better way to execute it was by wounding egos by words.

He stated sourly, not too pleased with her compliment, "Such ambitious words for a child."

Her brows were knitted together. "I am no child, old man," she barbed carpingly. "I am most probably older than your apprentice."

"You are terrible at first impressions, _boy_," his scold sounded more like a taunt. "Just rightly proves how juvenile you are."

Miffed, she recalled bitterly, "I believe I gave you my name."

"I believe I would still call you 'boy' if I wish to if you still hold onto that discourtesy of yours." There was that satisfied twitch from the corners of his mouth that further displeased her mood, which he took note of. He ignored her chafed glare with a sigh. "Nonetheless, spurring words are vain once you have dealt with the consequences of being a wizard. To mature into one takes time." He reminded wisely.

"I could be patient if I want to." Spoke the tenacious lass.

He stood from the furniture with a sober expression cladding his visage. His arms were folded as he stepped closer to her, his height towering her lean frame. "And are you prepared for the responsibility of becoming one? Holding such power in your hands would bind your services to sovereignty."

She shot a hard glare back at him. At least, if there was something she disliked about him aside from his personality, it would be those glassy eyes. Those marble green stones, hollow and inhuman. "Unlike you, I would use my abilities for the betterment of the country."

"Foolish boy, your mind is still too brash and ignorant," he chastised in a mild tone. "Despite that, you would attract unwanted perils such as formidable adversaries, envious rivals, and perplexing tasks by royalty. Could you still handle that burden?"

"My decision still stands."

A smile danced upon his ruddy lips, impressed. "I admire you for your flare," he remarked boldly, but soon his grin wavered pensively. "But I cannot fulfill your request." With that said, his feet begun to stride away from her as he marched towards the flight of weathered stairs.

"What— wait!" Clara scurried after him in panic and dismay. "I've been searching for a mentor! I'll do anything!"

He paused, but nary a word came out from him.

Howl glanced at the brunette behind her at the corner of his eyes. "Michael, you could let him stay here for the night," he stated primly, a placid smile tracing his mouth. "It is pouring outside."

Finally, he left.

She gaped silently. Disappointedly. Brokenly. She was rejected.

"Y-yes." Were the inaudible words of Michael. His sooty orbs glanced at her concernedly. "Are you all right, Clarence?" He gave her a comforting pat at the back.

She cleared her throat, her daze faltering. "I-I'm fine."

It came unforseen that the oh so awesome and feared wizard she scoured for two years would be this inflated, pompous, too pretty _peacock _who would fit perfectly as her center of peeve.

But she came this far to find herself a mentor, and she wasn't going to lose her chances.

Her fist clenched.

_No matter what it takes._

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**A/N:** First of all, pardon me for starting a story then returning after more than 6 months. But, I hope you enjoy chapter 2 and I'm very grateful for those who reviewed. I appreciate them very much. Ah, and I am sorry if I somehow got Howl's character OOC in some parts, especially the part where he questions Clara about apprenticeship, but there are reasons why he was deterring her and _my _reasons why I had to do it, one of these reasons is that Howl _is _in a less forgiving state. There's a reason behind that which you'll know in later chapters. So, forgive my forlorn soul if I've committed a grave crime! Well, enough of my drama. Thank you again for reading!

**Next Chapter: **_"The Chronicles of a Stubborn Decision, a Spoiled Breakfast, and Worthiness"_

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**Disclaimer:** I do not own Howl's Moving Castle. This masterpiece belongs to its wonderful writer, Dianna Wynne Jones.


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